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 something of the saint's history, but she replied that she knew nothing about it. Then I told her what I knew about his story, but she would not have it that it was that San Antonio at all. "When and where did he live?" I asked. "How should I know?" she answered. "Was he ever alive at all?" "What is the use of asking an old woman like me? I don't know if he ever lived, but I know that he is a 'santo'."

"But, Niña Chica, he is your own particular saint, and you don't know anything about him at all?"

"Yes, I do," she replied indignantly; "I know that the cockroaches have eaten the end of his nose!"

Soon after this conversation took place a greater demand than ever was made for the coloured wrappers and labels, and an old photographic tent with a yellow lining was borrowed from me, for the "Novena" of San Antonio was approaching. I had an invitation to attend the prayer meetings, but managed to excuse myself, for the Niña Cbica's house was very small and it was crowded each night as tightly as it could be packed, and for half an hour the congregation shouted chants and hymns in unmelodious voices. On the last night I had watched the company arrive and had then turned into my own hut to eat my supper, and was wondering why the singing did not begin, when I heard the sound of much loud talking, and on going out to see what was the matter, found the whole congregation outside the house discussing the situation. At that moment a messenger came running in and cried, "It is no use, Don Pedro says his toothache is so bad, he can't possibly come!" The Niña Chica was in despair, and came over to tell me all about it, and then I learnt that Don Pedro was the only man in the village who could read, so that there was no one now to conduct the service. "You bring me the book," I said, "and I will see what can be done." She flew off, and soon returned with a very dirty little paper-covered book containing the services for the Novena, but on turning over the leaves I found that half the service for the last night had been torn out. I broke this gently to the Niña Chica, and expected another wail of despair, but she chirped up and said, "Never mind, Don Alfredo, you read as much as there is, and then nudge my arm, for I know lots of things to sing." I begged for a few minutes' delay that I might first read through the service to myself, and I cannot say that I found it edifying, nor do I think that it could have conveyed much meaning to the native mind. However, I went over to the crowded hut, and there in the corner was the noseless St. Anthony in his glass-faced case, surrounded by candles and flowers and a choice selection of labels of somebody's soup and somebody else's salmon, and shreds of coloured paper, all arranged under the yellow-lined canopy made of my photographic tent, and I must own that the general effect was brilliant and successful. T